Sherlock Holmes: Old Habits
by LawsonTR01
Summary: When Holmes re-appears from his predicted death, Dr. John Watson is pulled back into a partnership with Holmes after a most sinister plot is discovered; the legacy of Professor Moriarty.
1. ACT 1

**A.N: This is a story that follows _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows; the latest release in the Sherlock Holmes film series._ It's a look into what could come next for Holmes and Watson and will most likely be a ten-part (act) story. I'd love for reviews from those of you who read; they'll be most welcome! Please enjoy and leave feedback – because the more feedback, the easier it is to continue writing! Thanks!**

**(I do not own or have any affiliation with _Sherlock Holmes)_**

ACT 1 –

_ONE year from today ~ Reichenbach waterfall_

"And so you see, Mr. Holmes; you're not the only one who can play at that game." Moriarty's eyes trickled with a certain confidence that made even the great Sherlock Holmes' cocky smirk vanish. His eyes faltered for a moment and the saliva still present in his mouth found itself rolling down his throat like a solid ball; ready to block his airways. There was no escape. Holmes may have been a proficient investigator, and an extraordinarily precise observer – but he was in the presence of someone who matched him. Someone, who in every sense, could predict everything and more. This fight was not going to end well; not for Holmes – not for the world around him. So, the good private investigator simply chuckled uncomfortably. The clear decoding of the situation at hand raced through both of the men's brilliant minds. Each of them taking specific notice of everything about one another; the wounds, the faults in stature and the simple mistakes that came with one another's preferred competitive styles. But seemingly, both resolve led to the same outcome. Sherlock Holmes falling to his demise and Professor James Moriarty standing triumphantly tall as he watched the only man capable of stopping him fall to his impending doom. Though, Holmes wasn't one accustom to losing. To being outmatched. To leaving a job _half _done. And so he blinked, eyes narrowing on the partially opening door in the backdrop of Moriarty. Doom was imminent, and Watson was approaching; the clear smell of his alcohol potent breath from the liquor he had drank on the way to this very gathering in order to keep him at bay while tending to his wounds. So Holmes had to do what Moriarty was not expecting. He had to turn all the precise calculations on their head. Throwing his left arm forward and latching it around with his right arm which had securely pulled against Moriarty's back, Holmes found himself with a secure hold of his target. Throwing his body forward and using his firm right leg push, the wounded P.I cast himself backwards and pulled the scheming professor with him. But before they could fall, Holmes found his eyes locked with Watson for a brief moment; and in that moment – all that needed to be said, was.

'_Goodbye old-boy._'

So the fall began, and Sherlock kept his grapple over Moriarty for the precise time; eyes closed as he waited for the proper moment to let loose. And there it was; the distinct feeling of water hitting his face, Holmes released and Moriarty was let loose into the rocky sides of the waterfall. But the shift in weight was enough to force Holmes in another direction. Directly into the path of the cascading water; water which added weight to his garments and made him a more solid and slowed target with the interference of a third party through the fall. So, the speed of his fall was altered and slowed greatly, and Holmes used his knowhow to drop in perfect pin-precision into the waters. Evidently, the fall was shocking and Holmes found himself stunned – but – after several moments, the sudden intake of water put him back into a mode of alertness. Typically, it would be panic, though, someone as planned as Sherlock Holmes needn't do such a thing. And so with a stolen (or as Mr. Holmes would claim; borrowed) apparatus from Mycroft; breathing need not be a problem.

_PRESENT day_

"Mary!" Watson's voice called across the home. "Have you seen my jacket? I left it on the chair by my office but it doesn't seem to be anywhere around there."

There was nothing for it; Watson never misplaced his things. It was something that his time with Holmes had taught him – something that had been pushed out of his habits. Misplacement just wasn't a thing that could occur when you were around someone as precisely annoying as Holmes was. A pulling and churning embraced Watson's stomach with that thought however. He wasn't used to the word 'was' when it came to his old friend. Because Holmes was never defeated – was never gone. He was always one step ahead, and two thoughts beyond the common folk. Never to be outmatched, outsmarted or outdone. But he had been. And for that reason, he now came to be something that Watson couldn't find comfort in; a _was, _a_ once upon a time –_ but without the happy ending_._

"If it's not there, dear, I have no idea what you've done with it. You don't need it all that much; it's warm out today." Mary offered, finally finding her way to the good doctor's office to give him a love infused kiss. Watson and Mary were happy at last with one another. But while the two of them joked that their relationship would never be genuinely functional without Holmes being around – now that he was gone – it just seemed…. Seemed like the relationship needed him. Bizarre really; how a relationship between two people needed its third wheel. Though it was a horrible thought; thinking of Holmes like that, but furthermore, having treated him like that for a time. What a horrible person Watson had been. Pulling gently away from the kiss, John offered his beautiful lady a sad smile, "My dear," he broke carefully. "Do you – do you ever miss him?"

"And by him, you mean _him_?" Mary offered, not daring to mention the name that was lingering at the forefront of her mind.

"Yes." Watson said shortly.

"Of course I do. He had an effect on all of us, John. In his own way. No one can replace him -.." but Mary wasn't allowed to finish and the sound of a gruff, distinct voice brushed across the room in it's typical intruding fashion.

"Precisely!" it crept, "And it's for that reason that I have returned."

As quick as the voice had come, Mary squealed terrified, looking on at the wall that was seemingly talking to them. Watson had whipped his head around to meet the destination of the voice that he knew, oh, so well, and finally, the figure revealed itself. Revealing his personally made camouflage to match the Watson household walls, Sherlock Holmes' welcomed face appeared in all its confidence.

"Holmes…." Watson uttered, unbelieving of what his eyes had decided to show him. It wasn't possible. He'd been gone for a whole year, and yet, here – somehow – he was; standing in all his glory. "This – it's not possible."

"On the contrary, old-boy, it's very possible. I am here and therefore, the possibility of this being possible is well – very possible." Holmes uttered with a cheeky smirk, pacing forward and opening his arms dramatically in front of him. "Embrace me, Watson! I've missed you so!"

There was a pause; a long silence as Sherlock held his arms wide open and Mary held her breath uncomfortably in the background. John's eyes narrowed uneasily on the man before him, and rather than a brotherly hug, the doctor retracted his right fist and pelted Holmes' violently in the jaw.

"Embrace you!" Watson growled angrily.

"That…" Holmes uttered pained, shaking off the effects of the punch, "That Watson, was not an embrace! By god, man, what has this woman been teaching you in the art of intimacy!" Sherlock shot questioningly, pointing towards Mary.

"It's got nothing to do with, Mary, you fool! You were gone for one whole year! You led me to believe that you were dead!" the doctor argued back.

"It was the only way!" Holmes charged back in his defence.

"How?"

"Because!"

"That's not an answer, Holmes!"

"It's the perfect answer!"

"Oh, shut-up…"

Sherlock's eyes flashed down to the floor and for a moment he pouted disappointedly. This wasn't how he'd planned for this meeting to go at all; not even in the slightest. Finally however, Holmes allowed his eyes to track away from the floor and to the woman that had stolen his best friend's heart.

"Mary," Holmes spoke simply. "Would you be so kind as to allow me a moment with the dearest doctor?"

Mary simply offered Sherlock an unbelieving glance still and her eyes refused to believe what she was seeing, even still. "Of course. I think I need a fresh glass of champagne anyhow." She tracked mindlessly out of the room, disorientated.

Acknowledging the valuable time that they had alone, Holmes tracked towards Watson who had now vanished to the behind of his desk, dropping into his seat and rubbing his forehead. "I need an explanation, Holmes. You have no idea what you – you're _death _did to me."

"I understand – but you must understand, Watson – I was doing it for your own good. We know just how drawn to me you are, how much you truly love me more than Mary and how you would inevitably pick me over her if I so asked it." Sherlock spoke proudly, sounding a little self praising and undeniably stupendous in the way he was speaking.

John's eyes said it all, the way they rolled and dismissed Holmes' 'it's all about me' ideology. So with careful pressure and a light-hearted tone, Watson broke through Holmes' drifting tale. "Get to the point, Holmes."

"You wanted to get out, Watson. And this past year – I have done nothing to pressure you back into partnership with me. That's why I stayed away – because – if I had returned, inevitably, you would be working alongside me once more."

"So, if that's your idea – why are you back here? Wouldn't that mean you wanted me to work with you again?"

"Precisely!"

"No." Watson shut down instantly. "We're preparing to leave on our belated honeymoon and you're not putting it on hold – again!"

"Watson – there is a bigger picture here!" Holmes pressured, pressing his hands onto the doctor's desk and leaning his weight into them. "I have a case in which I need your knowledge."

"My knowledge?"

"Correct."

"Well – I'll tell you what you need to know; here and now. But you'll have to work the case alone. Like I told Mary, I wont be going along with you again."

"Very well." Holmes spoke, somewhat unhinged by Watson's words. He truly did want his partner back alongside him. Someone to support him through all the cases that pushed him to breaking point; a social friend in which he truly didn't mind having around his person. Someone who didn't annoy him to a point in which he wanted to blow his brains out. The only person for such a job however, was of course, Dr. John Watson.

"It seems that before his demise, Moriarty had a plot of the most sinister nature." Holmes spoke, eyes lingering towards the wall behind Watson; no sign of blinking. In a clear state of thought. "Professor Moriarty disbanded his control and lead over his plots prior to his death, distilling the responsibility in someone of the most trusted nature; Sebastian Moran, the ex-colonel and now gun for hire."

"Moran? As in… -."

"Yes. The walking, talking, smoking dishonourable discharge!"

"So, what? Moran's going to yet again try and start a war?" Watson questioned, a little uncertainly.

"I thought much the same, Watson. However – this plot is much more central to home. Moran wants to put England into a state of disarray. To destroy the homeland, Watson. And what better way to do such a thing then to-…"

"- target politics." Watson concluded.

"Precisely. If politicians and order is disorientated, how then can England – potentially the most powerful military force in the world – defend itself from the war Moriarty had plotted from the very start?" Holmes uttered. "Moriarty said something to me before his demise. Eventually, despite his actions, the war would start itself – because those which he was targeting were always going to have a purpose for war. Money, power; anything. The fact of the matter, Watson – war is going to go until time itself diminishes. And when time, diminishes, old boy; war will probably be the culprit." Holmes blinked finally, his eyes tracking back to the doctor and off the wall. "That, my friend, is a case even we won't see through."

A sad smile was offered both ways, and Watson's clearly ticking mind was only making Sherlock feel a little uneasy. When the good doctor thought, it was never good; truly. The thinking was something best left to the alcoholic P.I. Watson knew it, Sherlock knew it, and even the dog Gladstone knew it; even if he denied expressing his feelings.

"I want to come with you." Watson finally spoke.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I want to help you stop, Moran. He's ex-military and I feel an obligation to helping you stop him. Especially if he's targeting England." Watson shot back simply.

"But your honeymoon?" Sherlock offered back quickly. Though, the clear sparkle in his eye was an obvious 'tell'. He'd known exactly how Watson was going to react to his return with this information.

"I think Mary will understand this, Holmes. The safety of our homeland and all that."

"Very-well. But I shan't be around when you tell her. Your demon woman shall blame me entirely for this." Holmes winked, offering Watson a nod. "By the way – your jacket. It's in your bedroom resting underneath the bed sheets. From what I can tell, you came home drunk in your usual fashion – and Missus Watson required some 'physical' expression of the love you both pledged to one another on that oh-so-fine wedding day. The jacket, seemingly, was lost in the fuss." Holmes uttered in perfect detail back, standing back to full height. "I bid you good day, Watson. I shall meet you tonight at your favourite restaurant." And with that Sherlock dispatched towards the exit of the doctors office.

Watson was sitting stunned as a result of the words that had been shot back his way. How Sherlock knew the jacket was under the sheets was beyond him – but furthermore – how it had gotten there? That was unnerving. Once more, John had underestimated his best friend's nose for detail and scenario decoding. Standing from his chair and pacing out towards the hallway, Watson followed down his stairs to meet with Mary who was sitting with her legs firmly on the ground and a glass of champagne in her hand.

"So can we go now?" Mary offered. "The train leaves in half-an-hour."

"Mary…" Watson struggled.

"We're not going are we?" she spoke back softly. She already knew; the moment that Sherlock had arrived – it was obvious – the honeymoon had been cancelled; again.

"Mary – look. It's the last time, I promise. This time; it's just different." He pleaded, almost sounding as though he wanted her consent to let him go on one last adventure; one last ridiculous, childish, death-defying adventure.

"You're a grown man, John. Do what you feel is right." She spoke back simply, offering her husband a smile. "Just come back to me; in one piece."

"I will. I promise." He assured, leaning forward and giving Mary a loving kiss on the lips. With a gently stroke across her cheek and one final deepening moment shared between their lips, Watson pulled away, but still longing for more.

"I'll see you soon." With a limp and a supporting lean on his cane, Watson opened the front door to his house and went on his way to meet with Holmes; just like old times. And Sherlock's know-how of Watson's die hard habits came through. Just like gambling when it came to the good doctor; old habits die hard.


	2. ACT 2

ACT 2 –

Arriving with a jacket pulled over his shoulders, Watson's eyes skipped around the 'Grand' restaurant, trying to spot Sherlock in the confounds of the dining facility – however – he was nowhere to be seen. There were old folk around, and respectable military personnel, but a rundown private eye was not visibly present. The chandelier's dangled from the rooftops and Watson couldn't help but pay specific detail to their perfection. The brilliantly lit innards of the restaurant were courtesy of the dangling magnificence's in which his eyes were always drawn to. So needless to say, with all the gloriousness of the area taken in, Watson still had no idea where Sherlock was or how he was going to meet with him. Tracking carefully over towards a waiter, the good doctor offered the man a pleasant smile. Before he could speak, the typical introduction accompanied his arrival.

"Welcome to the Grand, sir. Have you made a reservation?"

"No. I'm here with a friend. I think it may be under Holmes."

"Ah-Yes. This way." The waiter led with a confident stride. He had white tips flicked through his hair and a perfectly white undershirt with a black vest buttoned up over it. A moustache sprouted from his features; white in color, hence, showing his age some more. But, what Watson couldn't put his finger on was why this man was so familiar to him. Something about the very way he presented himself. Perhaps he'd been seated by the elder man before? But those thoughts were brushed aside when the waiter came to a halt at the table, pulling a chair out for the doctor.

"Please take a seat, sir."

"Is Mr. Holmes not here yet?" Watson quirked, removing his jacket and offering it to the hook the older man had made with his arm before continuing to sit down.

"I don't believe so, sir." The man offered with a smile. "Although, it's good to see that you found your jacket." And with a spring in his step, the suspicious waiter strutted off towards the back rooms of the restaurant.

Watson's stirring smirk pulled at his lips. It was Holmes. It was Holmes being undeniably precautious and careful with his arrival.

It took only several moments for the overly overt nature of Holmes' new disguise to reveal itself, and Watson had to hold back a chuckle. This time, the investigator had presented himself as a military man; hair combed back and still streaked with white, but absent the moustache and present with an over the top limp; clearly poking fun at Watson.

"Good day, Dr. Watson." He spoke firmly, pulling his seat out and dropping gently into it. "I'm most glad that you could join me this evening."

John's eyes scouted around the room, looking at some of the assessing eyes of the military individuals present, and the more judgemental eyes of the women that they had come with.

"Holmes…. Your disguise is far too overt to ever be believable." Watson leaned closer, whispering.

"The exact point, Watson. If I am so unbelievably surreal, no one will ever attempt to confront me and question who I am or whether I am truly of military service. The more overt one is – the less likely that people are to present any sort of problem. No one wants to talk to a crazy man." Holmes uttered back matter-of-factually.

"That's ridiculous."

"That's life, my friend."

John allowed himself to fall back into the seat and tracked his eyes back onto Sherlock. There had to be a reason he remained in disguise. Something had to be going on here that meant he wasn't allowed to reveal himself. So John did his best to look around in the most discrete of fashions for signs of someone of interest. Nobody stood out however.

"Why are we here, Holmes? More to the point – why are you mocking me?" John added, seeming completely brainless of the entire situation.

"Mocking you, my dear Watson? Nonsense! You are the only man of military prestige in which I consider worthy of my disguise. I am simply replicating your magnificence." Holmes spoke in mock-honesty. "Although, why we are here is far more obvious than you may believe. Behind you is the walking, talking, smoking dishonourable discharge. He's here meeting with someone. I want to know with whom." Holmes spoke back in explanation.

"How did I know we weren't meeting just to have a nice dinner for once?"

"Because you know me far too well, Watson. It's for that reason I wonder why you married Mary over me." Holmes spoke uncertainly, a sour looking pulling over his features.

"I'm sorry – what!"

"Nothing! It doesn't matter." Holmes discharged, shifting his gaze away from the doctor.

"Anyhow, it's time to get to business." Sherlock instructed before repositioning himself to be more comfortable.

"Well come along then, Holmes. I don't have all night. Mary is expecting -…"

"Mary!" Holmes intruded. "Why does that woman always find herself in our conversations, Watson? It unnerves me."

"You unnerve me. I find that it's just fair." Watson shot back teasingly with a smirk.

"Now, back to what we're here to discuss." Holmes diverted, a sickly face rubbing away once he got off the topic of Mary. "Moriarty's plans were far more widespread then we could have ever known," a slight pause as he observed Moran and his company chatting. "The provocation of Moriarty's assassination attempt was enough to get forces prepared for a war and the mass production and distribution of weapons has hinted nations at the idea of a war commencing. Whilst all of them are simply interested in protecting their own countries, once each of them catch wind of the massing weapons around the globe – it's only a matter of time before one attacks another, and so the chain begins; creating a world war!" Holmes spoke forcefully, suppressing his voice as much as possible, but keeping the dramatic-ness of his tone completely in tact. "At the end of the door, weapons on this large a scale only tells leaders of nation's one thing."

"Act before someone else does." Watson inserted.

"Precisely." Holmes confirmed. "What's the only force able to stop the catastrophe that will ensue as a result of these plans; do you ask my dear Watson?" Holmes offered rhetorically, but no less, John answered nonetheless.

"England." He added. "That's why Moran's targeting England now, isn't it?"

"Correct." Holmes concluded, his eyes tracking over to Moran and his company which had now began to move on their merry way. There was no more time for small talk; it was time for action.

"I've ordered you your favourite soup. Stay here. Stay out of trouble, doctor." Holmes spoke, standing from his seat and filing out after the unknown acquaintance of Moran. The colonel himself could wait; he was the main force of this operation. But to secure the main force in reasonable custody, Holmes needed to pursue the little people; the little people that didn't have anything personal invested in this whole debacle. Tracking quickly after the man and slowly removing his disguise as he went, Holmes found himself in a dark alley and the man had vanished. Stopping in his tracks, Holmes looked ahead of him and his eyes were wide. He'd been given the slip! By god, was he getting old?

The thought was short as he felt a firm hand landing on his shoulder from behind.

"Holmes." The voice crept as the hand twirled him around. "You were following me?"

"Oh… yes… I thought you were someone else; my mistake." He allowed to creep out, looking at the sheer size of the man that had confronted him. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind brought Holmes' instincts to attention.

_Clack, Clack – Clack, Clack – Clack, Clack – Clack, Clack – Clack, Clack._

Five sets of footsteps; five other individuals ready to have a play time with Sherlock Holmes.

"We're gonna' have some fun with you, Holmes. Compliments of Moran…. That's right; he knew you were coming!"

'_Inclusive of the smelly man with his hand on my shoulder, that's six individuals that find themselves in an inescapable situation. Loose ends are a no-no; especially now that they know I arrived with Watson. Let's take a look further. First, dislocate large-grappling mans arm; apply powerful right-footed kick to chest. Use the impact to propel self backwards; using the force to empower forceful elbow to two individuals. Concussion ensues; chances of recovery without mild memory-loss? Highly unlikely. Follow through with abrupt knee to fourth male's groin. Allow impact to take its toll and finish off with right hook to cheek. Block incoming strike from rear, breaking arm at elbow and finish with forceful kick to chest. Flying body disposes of last individual. Members of attacking party concussed? Six of six.'_

There it was, plotted out specifically in his head. So with precise movements, Sherlock did what he needed to do. Quickly, he swung his right arm over the man's and he wrapped it around the large, smelly mans. Pulling up with significant, pin-pointed force, he broke the mans arm at the blow and flourished the hand off of his shoulder. A loud grunt escaped the mans lips and with that sound as a cue, Holmes kicked his powerful right leg into the mans chest and cast him backwards allowing his head to crash against a wall behind him. Using the force of the kick to cast him backwards, Sherlock raised both his arms and hooked them, allowing his elbows to spike on either side. With the compiled force of the kicking force and the swinging force of his arms, the P.I collected two individuals' faces and had them falling backwards painfully; noses broken. Spinning his body to the right, Holmes brought his knee quickly up and struck the fourth man in the groin – watching and waiting until the goon was at the perfect height for a right hook. Collecting his cheek and casting him aside, Holmes found the pressure easing off his shoulders. Only two more remained. Turing his body into the incoming attack, Holmes parried it to the side, punching with sincere force into the side of the mans elbow and breaking it outward. Using his left leg to lift himself into the air, Holmes kicked outward with his right and sent the man flying backwards into the last target and both fell to the floor; concussed.

With a breath of fresh air and a quick look around, Sherlock Holmes gave his imaginary audience a smile. Once more, his brilliant mind hadn't disappointed him. But his time in self-appreciation was cut short. Watson was at the restaurant alone, and now, Moran knew that Holmes and Watson had arrived together. The good doctor was in danger; if not already harmed. Charging quickly towards the acquaintance of Moran that he'd dismissed of first, Holmes slapped his cheeks forcefully to wake him up.

"You; wake up you smelly giant!" Holmes demanded.

Finally, he got a result and the man blinked into consciousness, still grunting severely from the pain of his dislocated arm.

"What were you meeting with Colonel Moran for?"

"He needed someone-gahhh-to get him into cahoots with politicians." The man grunted painfully out. "I'm quite persuasive in that department."

"Oh?" Holmes asked for more in the most discrete of ways.

"I'm a journalist. I've got something's on certain politicians which I shouldn't. Moran wanted me to invest their help in him." The man struggled. "That's it; I swear!"

"Thank-you, good sir." Holmes spoke back, standing to full height. "Excuse me, however. I must deliver a significantly painful blow to your neck to ensure I'm not followed." Holmes said, chopping downward at the neck and forcing him back to concussion. With quick feet, the brown-haired investigator raced off back to the restaurant, the sound of his shoes clacking away at the floor as he went. Pulling himself around the corner, using his hands to slow him down as they pulled across the buildings he passed by, Sherlock rounded back into the innards of the fancy Grand restaurant. But Watson was no longer at their table. He was gone. The sound of gunfire caught everyone off guard and immediately, Holmes raced out of the eating area and into the streets. His eyes searched frantically around for the good doctor or a sign of gunfire – but neither was discovered. People evacuated the streets in fear and suddenly all that stood within the quiet streets was Sherlock. It was much easier now that all sound other than gunfire had dispersed. So when the next shot came, Holmes paid particular attention. Racing in the direction which he found it to be coming from, Sherlock rounded a corner to have his line of sight met with Watson. Pushing himself against the cover of a wall however, Holmes ensured he was out of the shooters sights.

"Watson!" he called in somewhat a hushed-yell.

"Holmes…. It's Moran!" Watson signalled up towards the shooter.

"How did you end up out here? I told you to eat your favourite soup in the Grand, not to go searching out the very man that is trying to eradicate this country from the face of the Earth. Honestly, Watson, we need to work on our communication skills significantly!"

"It's not a lack of communication, Holmes! I heard you. I just wanted to see if I could be of some use, alright?" Watson fired back, narrowing his gaze and almost forgetting about the gunfire around him as tensions built between the two men.

"We'll discuss this later." Holmes concluded. "For the moment, you need to remain calm. Breath, Watson. In and out; deep breaths in, and out." Sherlock coached almost mockingly.

"Holmes; do something for god-sake!" Watson demanded, his eyes widening as the gunshots began to grow closer to his covered position.

"I trust you have your revolver with you, old boy?" Sherlock queried back, a sense of certainty about him.

"Yes."

"Cast it to me." Sherlock spoke simply. "On my count. We must wait for the perfect window of opportunity." The sound of gunfire continued and then, a click. An ammo change was required. "Now!" Holmes called, reaching his hands out and grasping the revolver pistol that had been thrown his way. Clicking back the hammer and dispatching from his trusty cover, Holmes slowly eased his way towards Watson, firing the revolver in continuously. None of the shots were specifically aimed, but they were hitting close enough to Moran to hold him off for the proper moment.

"Watson; break for the cover I was behind!"

And with Holmes' words, the doctor raced into safety; followed shortly by Holmes. Handing the gun back to the good doctor, Holmes patted the man firmly on the shoulder and welcomed him to continue along back in the direction of the restaurant. There was no point going after Moran. Now that the two had dispatched – he was going to be back on track to dealing with politicians. There was no point waiting on a private investigator and his doctor partner; minor pieces in a much more major puzzle.

"What the hell was that!" Watson fired falling in step with Sherlock.

"That was a rather proficient marksman doing his best to kill you, Watson." Holmes spoke back matter-of-factually.

"I know that!" John hissed back. "What I want to know is why?"

"Because he knows you're with me old-boy. We scare him. We stopped his predecessor and now – we're on his tail too." Holmes informed honestly.

With a deep breath heaving itself out, Watson finally levelled his head and allowed all of the fuss that had built up from moments ago to finally ease away.

"So the man he was meeting with. Did you find out who he was and what Moran wanted with him?" John questioned.

With a nod, Holmes confirmed the good doctor's suspicions. "That I did."

"Well?"

"He was a journalist. As it seems he's been taking particular interest in politician's activities. It seems – he's the perfect person to confront when once needs friends in high places."

"Moran's going to convince members of parliament to help him bring the Crown down on itself, isn't he?"

"My exact thoughts, Watson. If so – then this plot; it's much more sinister than we could have ever imagined." Holmes spoke, stopping in his movements, only turning to meet Watson front on. "How do we stop parliamentary officials without seeming as though we want to start a war? Undeniably Moriarty's last legacy on this Earth. Moran is far too military-minded to ever plot something as brilliant as this." Holmes spoke solemnly. "As difficult as it will be, my dear Watson, we must stop it; even if it means the end of us."

"The end of _you_." Watson corrected.

"I beg your pardon?" Holmes shot back.

"The end of you. I'm not dying on one of these insane journeys, Holmes. I've got a wife now, remember? Mary Watson. That lady you keep pulling me away from?"

"Ah-yes…. The culprit of our broken relationship."


	3. ACT 3

**A.N: Thank-you all for your support and following of the story! With that being said, I'd really appreciate some reviews too! I'm going to leave the story for a little while until I get some feedback, just to see how you all feel the story is going and the characterizations are. I hope you've enjoyed the previous Act's and continue to enjoy this one! Once more, thank you for your support and please review!**

ACT 3 –

Quick paced steps brought Holmes and Watson back to the family home, and with a determined push, the good doctor led into his home. Eyes scanned frantically about the premises and Watson couldn't shake the feeling that Mary had been the target of Moran after the duo had escaped his shooting match. And so, even despite the view of Sherlock, John charged back to his home with an oozing amount of worry. In the eyes of a brilliant mind like Holmes' – the Moran fellow would tend to his mission; target politicians and deal with the investigative duo when they presented themselves; but never would he go out of his way, specifically, to stop them. But just like Holmes had said, Moran wasn't like Moriarty; he had a military mindset which made him idiotic and driven by instinct and emotion. That was something John could connect with and it was for that obvious reason that he'd made sure the first destination to be met since their escape from confrontations with Moran was the Watson household.

"Mary!" a franticness possessed the good doctors voice as he called out for his love, moving quickly through the house with an impending worry that at the next corner – he'd find his beautiful wife dead.

"Watson, you must calm yourself." Holmes instructed.

"I'll calm myself when I find, Mary!" John fired back, stopping for a moment as the frustration and pressure joined as one. His words had come out far more aggressive than he'd hoped them to.

Needless to say, Holmes was a little taken aback, but as per the norm, he made sure to make it seem as though he hadn't been affected by the words; pacing along in search of the woman that had taken Watson's hand in marriage.

"Mary!" John called once more, and this time, he was met with a response.

"John? What is it?" The beautiful blonde haired lady appeared at the stop of the staircase and made her way slowly down, holding her dress up to ensure she didn't find herself tripping.

John raced to meet the sound of the voice, his blue eyes locking on her as she made her approach towards him. A sigh of relief broke through his lips and a smile spread across his features. Mary was alright; just like Holmes had said.

"Have you found your demon-bride, Watson?" a voice called from in another room, only to be matched to the figure of the scruffy P.I as he advanced back into the main entrance spire of the home; his eyes locking on the nicely dressed female who was now eying him irritably off.

"Ah-you have." He allowed, slipping uneasily. "Excellent…."

"Why wouldn't I have been here? I've nowhere else to go, John?" Mary spoke, finally allowing her emotions and aggravated look on Holmes to settle.

"No reason. I just -…"

"Don't lie to me, John. What's happened?" Mary interrupted. "_His _case has got us both involved again, hasn't it?"

John tried his best to keep a steady face so that his words would seem at least somewhat believable. "No, no. Not at all; it's just -…"

"John…" Mary spoke disappointed.

"Watson!" Holmes cracked along.

"Holmes; enough!" John whipped back towards his friend.

"Enough? No – I think not! The lady wants the truth, and so, she should have it so!" Holmes uttered, a clear indication of trying to cause a problem seeping into the air. Typically, the P.I doing his sincere best to be completely difficult.

"Funnily, John – I agree with Holmes for a change."

"Surely, Watson – that must mean something? Tell the lady as it is!"

"Holmes!"

"John, please?" Mary spoke softly, her hand gently rubbing across John's face. The delicateness of her tone and almost vulnerable nature made denying her such a thing near to impossible.

"Fine." He conceded. "Someone tried to…. Maim me, and I thought they may target you next."

"Maim you, John? Do you mean…. Kill you?" it was almost as though she didn't want to know, but at the very same time, she did.

"I mean maim." John assured with a comforting smile.

There was an uncertain look on Mary's face and she scanned John's features for any sign of disbelief in his own words before continuing to do much the same to Holmes who was standing on the other side of the room. Needless to say, the two of them were masters of concealing their emotions and feelings and hence, Mary found no signs; even despite knowing that somewhere, those signs would be present.

"Look, Mary…. How about you go and stay at your mothers for a week? Just until we settle things here?" John questioned, placing a gently hand on Mary's right hand and cupping it with his left.

"No – John. That may give you peace of mind, but…. He's going to get you killed." Mary signalled towards Sherlock, her eyes possessing distinct fear for her husband's life.

"I denounce such an accusation!" Holmes piped.

But Mary had all the reason to feel that way. In honesty, even Holmes himself felt as though he was a magnet to danger. Whatever he was around, evidently, always found itself in some way, shape or form harmed, maimed or worse killed. So, for that reason, Holmes knew that he would have to distil a sense of trust in Mary so that she was almost certain that no harm would come of her new bridegroom.

Offering Watson a look of seriousness, Holmes spoke simply. "Watson; may I have a moment with the lady?"

"Of course." Watson spoke hesitantly, reluctant to let go of Mary's hand. God only knew what Holmes could be capable of saying whilst John was out of the room. But John had to have some trust in the man. He had to trust that he wasn't going to say anything out-of-character. In fact, he had to trust that he _was _going to say something out-of-character. Though eventually, the ex-military officer released his wife's hand and gave her a loving smile. Pacing towards Holmes, the doctor gave the man a gentle shoulder-bump; something that told Holmes to be respectful – or else.

Waiting for John to shut the door as he passed into another room, Holmes offered Mary a fake-smile. "Mrs. Watson." He struggled with the concept. "For your own good, you need to go elsewhere. You're in a most sincere amount of danger here."

"But so is John. Unless I know he is safe, I'm not going anywhere." Mary fired back, shutting Sherlock's words down almost entirely. If it was anything that put Holmes at unease – it was women. The way that they played with words and made you agree to things which you never thought you would. The masters of reverse psychology!

So, Holmes did the only thing that he had to his favour right now. "I will die before anything happens to Watson, my dear. He may be your bridegroom – but he is my brother. I assure you; nothing will come of him." There was seriousness in Holmes' tone that was rare. His eyes, his words – everything assured Mary that he was telling the truth.

"Alright." She nodded. "Promise me, Holmes?" she pushed for an emphasis on the clarification of his words.

And Holmes obliged most willingly. "I promise."

It was enough and Mary's worry felt as though it had dismissed at least somewhat. The idea of someone as brilliant as Holmes ensuring her that John would be okay seemed to be enough to ease her out of her complete and utter limiting of what he could and could not do. So with a thankful nod and a forced smile, Mary stepped forward, narrowing the distance between her and Holmes. With a gentle touch to his check with her open palm, she spoke. "Thank-you, Holmes – and good luck."

With a brief moment of pause and a silence shared between them, Mary navigated her way out of the room, opening the door Watson had shut behind him. The two of them shared an affectionate moment with each other and Holmes did his best to suppress any need to invade on it. So he simply stood, alone; waiting for Watson to farewell his lady so that they could get back to business.

"Holmes!" Watson called out back towards the room Sherlock had found himself lingering on his lonesome in. "I'm just going to take Mary to the train station. I'll be back in half-an-hour."

"Perhaps I should come?" Holmes shot back, a need to accompany Watson. The two were never apart – and when they were – it was heart wrenching.

"No, I think not. Stay here…. And don't do anything to Gladstone!" Watson called back, he and Mary already half way out the door. Before a word could be offered in return from Sherlock however, the sound of the door opening and closing bounced off the walls and a sudden silence overthrew the once noise-filled home.

* * *

><p>Hands linked as they made their way to the first class carriage, John and Mary enjoyed the warmth of each others touch. The warmth in which, for now at least, seemed a long and distant time away before they could enjoy it again. The sound of the train steaming and shoes clacking at various different rates across the platform made for a rushed environment; definitely not one of the romantic nature. Though, somehow, the distinct feelings that the two shared was enough to make something so tedious, unstable and loud the perfect environment for a farewell. Stopping at the front of the opened door leading into the first class carriage, John and Mary's hands unlinked and their eyes settled on one another.<p>

"You'll send to me, wont you?" Mary asked.

"Of course, my dear. Everyday." John assured her with a soft touch across her delicate features. "I wish this didn't have to happen, Mary." He spoke honestly.

"I know, John. Just remember that the sooner you figure all of this out, the sooner we can actually spend some quality time together." Mary offered back, looking as though she was being the more optimistic of the two.

"Maybe it's best if you stay…. So I can watch out for you…." John was starting to have second thoughts. The idea of Mary being so far away was unhinging. What if something were to happen to her; completely unrelated, but needless to say, life threatening? John wouldn't be able to get to her. Joints cramping up, suddenly, John had wished that he'd protested to the idea of Mary leaving. One minute she was reluctant, and the next, after speaking with Holmes, she was having a loving farewell with her husband. The question arose in John's mind suddenly; what had Holmes said to convince Mary that this was the best course of action?

"I'll be fine, John. I'll see you soon." Mary assured, kissing John gently on the lips. Turning, she stepped up into the carriage and John closed the door behind her; his eyes still watching her longingly as she took to her seat. But the moment only lasted so long. The sound of the train hooting had John step back, clear of any harm as he watched as the train slowly tracked away from the station.

It was done. Mary was on her way to safety.

And Watson was simply watching on as she departed; quietly, thoughtfully.

However, the moment didn't last for long. A firm brisk jogger passed by and John felt the firm force of a fist strike his kidney. Inching forward and grunting in pain, his eyes closing as a result of the sudden shock, John missed the offender who had escaped into the crowd forming ahead by the time the good doctor had recovered. But none the less, Watson touched where he'd been hit; just by the pocket of his long brown jacket. The pocket which was previously empty now filled with a piece of parchment. A letter. Drawing the folded parchment, the doctor unfolded it to reveal the words within. Hardly neat handwriting, with little to no care for placement on the page; nonetheless, it did what it was supposed to do; deliver a message.

_Dr. Watson,_

_ As it seems, we're hindering one another livelihood. If you would be so kind as to meet with me at The Grand this afternoon, I would be most grateful. Come alone for what I wish to discuss doesn't involve any other members of company. Be prompt, doctor; I don't like to be kept waiting._

_ Signed,_

_ Col. Sebastian Moran._

The good doctor's eyes tracked away from the page and he scrunched it in his fist. The nerve of this man was unbelievable; and god-forbid if Watson was going to go without Holmes. Because in all honesty, he didn't feel obliged to be putting himself in harms way after having just seen Mary off with the assurance that he'd be alright. Who else better than to ensure his safety than the great Sherlock Holmes; self indulgent private eye, and well-know bizarre occupant of London, England.

* * *

><p>"Moran wishes to meet with you?" Holmes quirked with the raise of a brow.<p>

"That's right." Watson offered back, tired eyes dropping with Holmes' decoding methods and distinct need to think aloud. It was the same old procedure introduced to a new situation. The tediousness of the whole thing was almost intolerable; especially after you'd sat through it more than a dozen times.

"Alone, no less?"

"Yes – Holmes; can we just go and meet with him?" John charged impatiently.

"No. We must be wary, Watson. What if he fully intends for you to bring me?" Holmes spoke softly, trying to suppress his tone with the thought of being watched. "He will have this household of yours surrounded, Watson. I must prepare myself in one of my brilliant persona-hiders!"

"You mean one of your ridiculous disguises, don't you?" Watson tried to correct.

"Exactly." Sherlock uttered, spinning on his heel and advancing up the staircase towards John and Mary's room. Immediately, Watson jumped to his feet and followed his friend quickly up the stairs. Whatever Holmes was thinking; it wasn't good.

"Holmes!" Watson called, finally finding the P.I shirtless in Mary's walk-in wardrobe, dress in hand; pink in color no less.

John's face fell low and his mouth drooped open in disbelief. "W-What are you doing?"

"I am going to be accompanying you…. As Mary Watson!" Holmes smiled triumphantly.

"No you're not. That's ridiculous…"

"Is it?" Holmes added quickly. "The colonel is oblivious to what Mrs. Watson appears like. With a close shave and a bonnet – I believe I could pass for your demon wife, Watson."

John's features pulled tight and his jaw bones clenched at the mention of his wife being some kind of demon for the third or fourth time in a day. The idea was ridiculous, but it was so ridiculous that in some way, it may work. Rudeness wasn't a trait a military man expressed often; even those of dishonourable discharge. There was no way that Moran was going to go pointing out the hideousness of Mrs. Watson in her (or his) presence. Besides, it would allow Holmes to be extremely close and ensure John's safety; something Mary valued significantly.

So, with little to no choice in the matter anyhow, Watson responded uncomfortably. "Fine – but wear something appropriate…. And…. Shave; make it the closest shave you've ever had, Holmes. I won't have Mary mistaken for some barbarian!" Watson pointed, clear pressure almost directed with his index finger.

"She shall look like an angel, Watson. A beautiful angel!"

So while Holmes prepared himself for his most overt disguise yet, Watson returned downstairs, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and downing it hurriedly. This was not going to be an enjoyable evening; not even in the slightest.


	4. ACT 4

**A.N: Sorry for the delay! Thank you so much for all your kind reviews! They're most appreciated! Please keep them coming; whether they're lengthy or simply quite short. I hope you enjoy the next act!**

ACT 4 –

There was a breeze out this afternoon; a cold, chilly one. The street was filled with moisture while people started at rubbing their hands vigorously together in an attempt to keep themselves warm – of course to no success. Needless to say, the streets were calm and people moved slowly as if their joints had frozen in place. It was for that reason that the drasticness of Watson and his best friend in disguise, Sherlock Holmes was all the more noticeable. They were running late which was surprising really, considering that Holmes prided himself on being remarkably early to everything and anything he decided to grace with his presence. However, he had taken particularly serious to the disguise he'd shrouded himself with. He'd adopted Mary's mannerisms and even her persona and habits. In fact, it was frightful how precise the way he presented himself as her (bar the appearance). That appearance – that was frightful in another way entirely. John however, was becoming uneased by the whole thing. Holmes didn't look anywhere near what Mary did. Moran was going to spot him from a mile away.

"This isn't going to work."

"Of course it's going to work, Watson. I look undeniably extravagant."

"Perhaps if you were a man dressed as a woman. Oh wait – you are!"

"That's quite enough of that. We're here now. We've just been married. Let's act like it then, shall we? We don't want to be hinting that we're having relationship troubles already now do we?"

"We're not married. I'm married to Mary; my wife!"

"I am your wife."

"You're disguised as her that doesn't make you her, Holmes!"

"Come now, Watson. It's best to get in character early. We don't want to risk blowing our cover now do we?"

"I hate you. You know that? I really, really don't like you right now." Watson sneered, but he couldn't help the somewhat playful streak that was displaying itself beneath all his infuriating emotions.

Guiding Holmes in with his walking cane, Watson deliberately placed it firmly down on the man's right foot; occupied by none other than some of Mary's finest heels. A somewhat manly yelp may have escaped the P.I's lips if he hadn't needed to keep a cover and so with a tomato-red face, Holmes withheld the urge to scream out in pain and Watson couldn't help but snicker a little bit at the smart mouthed gentleman's expression.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked mockingly.

"Fine darling – just… just fine." Holmes struggled in the most feminine of voices.

The wait to be seated came to a halt and a waiter stood front and center with his hands folded behind his back.

"Would you and you're…." The man stopped, looking Holmes up and down for a moment – his professional smile vanishing and coming back just as quickly, "…wife like to be seated, sir?"

"Yes we would. In fact, we're here to meet with a Mr. Moran." Watson piped back clearly.

"Yes. He's been waiting for you. Please, make your way straight ahead." The waiter invited, directing the two towards a table which was most clearly occupied by their dishonourably discharged enemy.

Walking with calm, collected features, Watson finally found his way to the seat opposite his company and pulled it out, offering it to the disguised Holmes.

"Please darling, take a seat."

"Why, thank-you, John." Holmes smiled back, giggling stupidly before plodding himself down into the seat.

It wasn't long before Watson took a seat himself and his eyes locked on with that of Moran's, who's features were blacked out by the rim of his hat – but lit up by the brief burning at the end of his cigarette.

"I told you to come alone." The colonel spoke firmly. "I don't like surprises, doctor."

"I apologize. This is my wife…. Mary. She insisted that she accompany me." Watson spoke back, lying perfectly. "I didn't think that the presence of the lady would make much difference."

"Your job wasn't to think, doctor. It was to arrive." Moran shot back, his temper showing.

"Well, I can't see why you were dishonourably discharged. You've got the mouth of an angel." Watson spoke back sarcastically, almost taunting the man before him.

"Look – I'm not in the mood for games – so let's be plain-…"

"What are you trying to achieve by causing a world war?" Watson interjected firmly; not quite ready to get to the reason Moran had for calling this little gathering.

"Achieve? Oh, doctor, it's not so much achieve as it is finalize. Professor Moriarty started this – I'm just putting the seal of approval on it. The final touches. War is inevitable…. Like Moriarty said time and time again." Moran smirked.

Watson's eyes were holding still to the man that sat before him, and Sherlock was simply remaining silent. Watson was handling this all well and good for the moment, and hence, any intervention from the P.I wasn't required.

"What I'm asking, Moran is why are you trying to corrupt the British political system?"

"Because then, I have complete control. They can't act military-wise to stop the World War from occurring if it cant be passed through parliament now can they? So long as England is held in a state of ineffectiveness, the world war escalates and escalates and escalates. By the time it's too late, England may be able to try and stop it – but even then – even their armies won't have the power to stop it." Moran offered with a shrug of the shoulders. If he was telling Watson this, it was undeniably that he believed everything up until that point was unstoppable; set in motion and ready to go. What he didn't know however was Sherlock's brilliant mind would be decoding and experimenting with scenarios based on the information given.

"Not every Lord will agree to this; surely that'll pose a problem?"

"That's for me to know doctor."

Pinpoint. This was the part that still needed to be figured out. If Holmes' methods had taught Watson anything – it was that streaks of complete and utter pride indicated the ideology a person had that they had achieved something of significance. But short answers with little to no emotion or hinting; inevitable downfalls in a miraculous plan.

"Now – to business." Moran shot.

"Of course."

"I want you to make sure Holmes drops this case."

A laugh escaped Watson's lips and he was almost tempted to bump his friend and ask him to set the colonel in his place.

"You generally need to have something to barter with when asking something like that, Moran. Simple gambling rules."

"I thought Mary Watson meant something to you, doctor?" Moran offered trickily.

Flashing a glance at his fake wife, Watson hesitated between Holmes and the man that had presented the proposition. Needless to say, Holmes reacted to the words, his eyes darting up to meet with Moran, before he shot a look back down again in a fake attempt at freight. Everything in Holmes was screaming to him that all this had gone too far. Watson had to accept the offer; for his wellbeing and his wife's. Holmes wasn't going to be responsible for a repeat of what happened with Moriarty.

"I'll tell him. It's done." John fired back, keeping his eyes away from Holmes; someone he believed would feel extremely unpleased by the response. However, in actual fact, Holmes was relieved. Completely and utterly.

"It's been a pleasure doing business, Dr. Watson."

"It's been a lot of things, Mr. Moran." Watson shot back bluntly, his eyes possessing a rare edge as he stood unpleased from his seat. With a firm hand, the very hand that signified his eloping with one Missus Watson – Holmes was forcefully raised. The act could've been up, however, Moran was far too self absorbed to realize.

Nothing was said on the long walk home. Watson's eyes were trained straight ahead and Holmes was doing his utmost best to do justice to the heels he'd found himself wearing. Lipstick had found itself smeared across his cheeks as he tried to rub the makeup off on his way back to the Watson household; a clear failure of his attempts. A determined push led the duo back into the comforts of the warm home, the large wooden door squeaking as John stepped with a limp through the doorway. Holmes followed messily. The door was slammed shut immediately after, and with a clear burst of anger, Watson cast his cane across the room.

"Damn it, Holmes!" teeth bared together and clenched forcefully, John allowed his blue eyes to stop on his mock-wife. "I'm sorry Holmes – but I meant what I said to Moran. You've got to call this whole thing off, old boy."

Holmes made it look as if he had to think on the point – but he'd already made his mind up. In fact, he'd made it up even before Watson had. Surprising how at times, one Sherlock Holmes had strands of what those in the real world would call 'decency' and 'common sense'.

"I know you did, Watson." Holmes nodded. "You haven't a worry. It'll be done; quick-smart. I shan't pursue this case personally any longer. The last thing I want is for Mary to be in danger…. For _you_ to be in danger."

"Stop it." John snapped.

"Stop what?"

"Stop acting like you care about her, because you don't. Stop acting like you care about me, because you don't. All that matters in that mind of yours, Holmes, is solving the case. No matter the cost." It'd come out far more harshly than John had wanted it to, but needless to say, the distinct irritation of being one-upped by the bad guy and furthermore being threatened was enough to hold him back from defending his words and rephrasing. And so he simply looked on as Holmes looked back; puppy-dog eyes begging for some mercy.

But none came.

"If you really believe that – then you best be going…."

"I am. I've booked a train ride to where Mary's staying. I'm going to make sure she's safe. To make sure, that if for some reason you let me down on your end of the bargain that Mary is safe."

"Very well." Holmes spoke back, somewhat stricken. "Well then, I'll be seeing you, Watson."

"Good day." John tipped his hat, little to no truth behind his words. Limping over to where his cane had landed, the doctor picked it up, marched upstairs and packed a suitcase as quickly as he could, before departing his home and leaving Holmes dumbfounded where he'd found himself standing since their return.

* * *

><p>It had been three days. Three days and Holmes had secluded himself to the small 221B, Baker Street apartment that he found was now, quite simply, his own. He'd doodled endlessly on pieces of parchment – trying to consider ways in which he could possibly have Moran followed, pursued or caught without doing any work personally – hence – for technicalities sake (which in Holmes' mind was all that mattered), he wasn't breaking the already unstable trust Watson had in him. Though every time, he was brought back to the same conclusion. He would have to pursue someone whom he, in so many ways, wished he'd never need aid from. And so for that reason he found himself standing out in the rain. Puddles were formed in the muddy road leading to the home and Sherlock's gaze lingered on the large white pillars that held up the balcony that overlooked the muddy terrain that the investigator had to trudge through to get to the under covered entrance to the home. Marvelously large windows stretched across the home, and Sherlock started to realize that his assistant and <em>partner <em>for this adventure hadn't changed in the slightest. With a firm hand grasping the knocker that was found on the door, Sherlock pulled back and cranked it forward firmly.

_Clank, Clank, Clank._

Footsteps were slowly approaching and so simply, Sherlock stepped back away from the door and into the rain once more. Boots splurging back into the dirty, murky, muddy water which fell short of the ankle. The door cracked open and a round man's outline was seen. He was somewhat taller than Sherlock, and much wider. But one thing was most certainly the same; his features – although – wider spread of course.

"Sherly? Sherly is that you?" a voice bellowed from within the poorly lit home.

"Mycroft." Holmes smiled falsely back. "I…."

"- Don't even bother; I know why you're here." Mycroft answered back.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Little brother – there are many things I know when the British Government is involved. I've heard a little of your most recent case. I've also heard about how little you're being allowed to do now, due to a certain person's promise."

"Yes, well. That's why I'm here, rather. I need you to execute your expertise in political know-how to find something for me to work with…. Without…. Working the case per say." Holmes tried to plot his words carefully, unwilling to admit he was here for help. That wasn't how things worked. Holmes never needed help; never.

"You need my help then?"

"No. I need your expertise and know-how." Sherlock tried to correct.

"You are aware that's just another way of asking for help. Deciphering that in any tongue leads to the same conclusion. You. Need. Help." Mycroft spoke smartly, with a raise of his brow. "Come in, Sherly. It's cold out. Let's have a cup of tea and talk of what you need?"

"Very well. But I will not confess to something that is not true. You're not helping me; merely stepping in to apply something I cannot."

"You amaze me sometimes, Sherly." Mycroft added, trying to imply his brothers stupidity.


	5. ACT 5

**A/N: This is super delayed and for that I'm sorry. A lot had to be structured and crafted to make all of this come together, and with the untimely writers block and sudden influx of work - it's been pushed back and back. I thank you all for your kind reviews and interest in the piece, and I hope that your interests can be reclaimed by this latest addition! Please enjoy, review and hopefully, I can post updates more promptly! **

ACT 5 –

Hands sitting in his lap, Mycroft Holmes peered across the coffee table that stood between him and his brother. Sherlock, meanwhile, was tending to the fine selection of biscuits set out across a platter on the tabletop, making specific effort to dip each one in his tea to soften it to the tooth. To Mycroft, his brother's behaviour seemed strange. Spoiling tea with a dipping activity involving biscuits was simply out of character for an English gentleman. But that rule could not apply to Sherlock. He was no gentleman. He was a self-indulgent, self-obsessed and self-driven anti-social vessel of unmatched deduction. So Mycroft said nothing. Instead he offered his brother a dissatisfied expression, one of his hands unlacing from the other to take his tea to his lips. Sipping it properly, the larger Holmes drew the small cup from his lips and cleared his throat as if to grasp Sherlock's attention.

"So what is it _exactly _that you require, little brother?" Mycroft arched a brow placing his teacup back down onto the table and leaning back curiously in his seat.

Sherlock stopped his picking at the biscuits and assigned a half eaten one back onto the platter that was for public use. Licking some sugar from his lips, the detective arched himself forward in his seat and offered Mycroft a firm look.

"I require a list."

"A list?" Mycroft shot back quickly. "Of what exactly?"

"Sebastian Moran plans to use our parliament to assist his little endeavour to unhinge the world in his large-scale crisis. I need to know whom would be…. Willing to help him." Sherlock offered with a little more detail that required.

Mycroft pulled a confused look across his features, his lips knotting together and pursing themselves outward on towards his right side.

"I don't know if you realize this or not, Sherly – but there isn't anyone within the political system that would be willing to help a dishonourably discharged Colonel start a World War. That's rather atrocious both in theory and practically." Mycroft spoke back with plainness. "For one, in theory, Moran isn't intelligent enough to orchestrate this World War he has in the talks. Secondly, in practice, he mustn't be all that good at war itself because he was dishonourably discharged. He seems like a horrible candidate to lead this whole thing, really." Mycroft uttered back thoughtfully, looking a little embarrassed for Moran after realizing how significantly useless he really was.

However, Mycroft's little tangent made Sherlock freeze a little his palms firmly rest atop his knees. The deduction skills of his brother still made him feel a little uncertain and uncomfortable with his own; as if he wasn't on par with the rest of his family, when in turn, he was.

"Come now, brother." Sherlock spoke back after he'd loosened himself up from the discomfort he'd been facing moments before. "These are politicians we're talking about. They're not paid to think but rather, to smile, laugh and talk the undeniably unsophisticated issues presented to them." Holmes smirked poking fun. "None the less, it's not the idea of them having to think about the plots in there entirety, Myki." Sherlock went on. "Is there anyone within the political branch of England that has any _extra curricular activities _that would be preferred hidden?"

"Well, perhaps. But I will need more time. To look closer into all of this."

"How much longer, Mycroft?" Sherlock spoke back somewhat irritably. "We don't have until Christmas, brother!"

"Calm down, Sherly. I shan't need any longer than ten minutes within my place of work. Then you shall have your list."

"Very well." Holmes spoke back. "Let's crack on!"

Pacing hastily through the British Government's main building, Mycroft Holmes did his best to look as if he was up to some good. He honestly felt a little uneasy about helping his brother with all of this. In fact, he felt terribly. Sherlock always had a way of having trouble wrap around all his cases, and those who found themselves helping him ended up in the vey same troublesome situations. Finally, though, Mycroft broke free of the well-open hallways and met pleasantly with his office. Within it stood Robert Carruthers, Mycroft's personal assistant and bodyguard who seemingly was as obedient as a well trained pet. He had short brown hair, combed backwards with the aid of some sort of hair product to hold it in place. With large brown eyes and a lengthy moustache, he looked a little too youthful to be in the post he'd obtained – but even still – he had obtained it; clearly an over achiever. He was dressed to the toe in impeccable garments. A fine suit, tailor fitted with perfectly polished and shined black dress shoes. An image of professionalism and near perfection.

With a simple tip-of-the-hat gesture, Mycroft greeted, "Carruthers."

"Sir, how're you this evening?" the man responded posh-like, a clearly upper class accent interlaced with his upper class apparel.

"Fine, fine." Mycroft spoke back with a brief smile as he approached a filing cabinet he'd assigned to the corner of his office. Opening it and scanning through the labelled pieces of parchment, Mycroft drew out a collection that fell under the letter 'L'. A small tab slipped onto one of the parchment pieces drawn read:

_LORDS_

Holding the papers in between his two hands, the Homles offered Carruthers a glance before stopping on his way to take a seat behind his impeccably clean desk.

"Tell me, Carruthers; how long have you been assigned to my office?" Mycroft asked.

"Six years, sir." The assistant answered back instantaneously. "With one month leave when my aunt needed care, a week's leave when my aunt needed care once more and following, a final two days leave when my aunt fell off her ladder trying to fix one of the candle holders in her home." There was certainty to the detail.

"Ah, yes." Mycroft answered back with a pleased smile. "Poor Aunt Fiona."

"Diana." Carruthers corrected, eyes not looking at Mycroft but rather the door straight ahead of him; appearing much like that of the royal guard to the Queen.

"Of course. Diana." Mycroft spoke nervously, covering his tracks. "How is she doing? Well I presume as you're with me?" Mycroft chuckled.

"Yes. She's doing fine." Carruthers spoke back with little emotion.

The point of Mycroft's question was not to talk of Carruthers' aunt however; it was to determine the trust the two had entwined and the loyalty. Though, Mycroft didn't want to involve anyone else in this illegal research he'd decided to disclose to his brother, and so, he was going to make sure that Carruthers was more than willing to have himself in the firing line if the two of them were discovered.

"I'm about to do something a little bit naughty, Carruthers. If you don't want a part in it, perhaps it's best you leave." Mycroft stated simply.

But finally, some emotion showed on Carruthers' features. A smile tweaked at his lips and his eyes darted from the door to the person he'd been unwaveringly loyal to for the past six years.

"I like to be naughty sometimes, sir." If anyone to be listening from outside the secure office they'd believe the two to be contemplating doing the _nasty_. But, it was nothing of the sort. Assigning the papers across his desk and finally resting his bottom, Mycroft looked towards Carruthers and invited him to bring a seat over and join him.

"We've got some reading to do, my friend."

The presumed ten minutes that Mycroft had claimed it would take him to make discoveries on Sherlock's inquiries soon elapsed into three hours, then four, then five. It wasn't for five hours and twenty nine minutes exactly that Mycroft returned from the stairs of the Government building to find a snoring Sherlock laying in the gutters in one of his ridiculous disguises. A long beard and tattered hair, Holmes was clearly playing a homeless man. The sound of Mycroft's footsteps trotting down the stairway leading to the magnificent grey building alerted Sherlock immediately. Springing out of his resting place, Holmes approached his brother with a look of sincere irritation.

"That was not ten minutes, Mycroft." Holmes shot. "I've been laying out here for hours. I've been touched by manly women, approached by old men wanting to cut my hair and sell it to bizarre buyers, and furthermore, I was offered to be cut open by a surgeon whom wished to sell my lung on the black market. What sort of a system do you run here, exactly!" Sherlock's eyes had widened with a frightful conviction.

Mycroft simply blinked with bored eyes. Shoving the papers he'd come to the conclusion were relevant into Sherlock's chest forcefully, Mycroft ensured that the younger Holmes had a firm grip of the papers and instantly he was on his way.

"Mycroft!" Holmes called after him. "What am I to do with these?"

"Read. It wouldn't kill you, you know?" Mycroft spoke, walking slowly off in the opposite direction.

Rolling his eyes, Holmes looked down at the papers, his eyes scanning across the words. And of course, Mycroft had not disappointed with his findings.

_Lord Harrison Danforth_

_LORD. H. DANFORTH is one of the standing members of parliament._

_STORIES PUBLISHED (OR ACTS PERFORMED) INFRINGING DANFORTH'S POSITION IN PARLIAMENT:_

_Supporting member of LORD. BLACKWOOD. in unreleased endeavours to cease power over England._

_Linked (proof ceased by authorities at request of Parliament, however recently stolen) to payment of prostitutes._

_Lord Howard Fry_

_LORD H. FRY is one of the standing members of parliament._

_STORIES PUBLISHED (OR ACTS PERFORMED) INFRINGING FRY'S POSITION IN PARLIAMENT:_

_Selling (and obtaining) goods to/from the Black Market_

_Assistant to LORD. BLACKWOOD. during the witchcraft period. (evidence currently linking FRY in storage within LORD FRY's personal accounts)_

Sherlock's eyes scanned frantically across the words and an excited smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. This was excellent. Completely new, completely ridiculous – something he could sink his undeniably brilliant deductive skills into and potentially even challenge himself with. Eyes flashing from the paper up to where his brother had once been walking, Sherlock found himself alone – his disguise slowly falling apart piece by piece as rain began to descend from above. The cobbled pathways slowly began to glisten all the more clearly and they appeared as if they'd been varnished with some sort of lather. England's streets were actually looking somewhat refined, collected and clean for a change.

However, amidst all of this information he'd received from Mycroft, Holmes had one specific problem. Both of the men listed would be extremely precautious of organizing meetings with individuals, especially if they were in close business with Sebastian Moran. A simple request for a chat simply wouldn't do. Sherlock knew that he was going to have to obtain the proof he required by another means. A means that was much more…. Illegal.

Six hours, forty two minutes and thirty seconds had passed. Sherlock was standing at the front of an exquisite building, refined, clean and pure in appearance; resembling a contrast to the man that lurking within its walls. Corruption, misleading words of poison and war-starting support was what could be found within. Not in the walls of the home itself, but in the man whom occupied the estate; Lord Howard Fry. Fry seemed like the only individual who could help Holmes in his investigation and his search for evidence. He needed to get into Fry's personal accounts – accounts which Holmes was convinced were kept on premises. It made sense really. What sort of a man would trust a bank – people easily manipulated, shaped and influenced by money, the very thing that they were surrounded by – with his reputation?

No one of logic; no one of reason.

Then again, how reasonable and logical could Fry be? He'd kept documents and proof that, essentially could condemn him to a fate worse than death in the eyes of a politician. He could be forced to retire his seat – forced out of the one thing he'd found a purpose in over his poor, miserable existence.

Then something occurred to Holmes. Perhaps Lord Fry didn't know that he had condemning evidence in his possession? Perhaps he didn't know what it was that was linking him back to assisting Lord Blackwood? It was brilliant. Perhaps an addition to Moriarty's legacy; a final planted metaphorical explosive that would send the world into a downward spiral. Something that no one could defuse or find because they didn't know it existed; no one other than Moriarty, and now, Sebastian Moran.

It was genius, and Holmes couldn't help but express his support for the excellence with an over the top clap, rotating from right to left as if a salute to the man that had almost defeated him. Of course, there was no one really being addressed by Holmes' clapping tangent, but even still, he put in just as much effort as he would if he were giving the utmost respect to a brilliant dramatic performance; standing ovation in style. The formalities had to be set aside however, and quickly, Holmes tracked towards the large fence that was surrounding the house, pulled his jacket off of his shoulders and hooked it around one of the erect spear-like ends of the fence. With a firm tug, he pierced the fabric of his over-coat and pulled, using the firm hook to gradually ease his way over the fence and onto the other side.

"Far too easy." He plotted plainly, plodding down on the other side, his eyes gazing around to see if there was some sort of alternative security method. There didn't seem to be one – at least – not for a good several moments. The sound of the front door opening slowly and footsteps filing out of the brilliant estates innards had Holmes taking a few assessed steps back so that he could weigh up the situation before him. A large bald man, brutish in nature appeared with a club in hand. He was accompanied by two others. A small Asian gentleman and an even smaller Asian child. No, scratch that; midget. With a playful smirk, Holmes took in a deep breath, centered himself and closed his eyes. Showtime.

'_Brutish baldy will make the first move; superiority complex and armed stature supplies enough evidence to conclude that he is the full force of this assault. He is the one that should bring this confrontation to an abrupt and timely end. Short Asian man – well trained in the art of Kung-Fu – clearly understood by his straight-backed stance and respectful gesture. Hands crossed behind back, calm, collected and centered features. Respectful attacks will be expected. Asian midget; highly volatile. Crutch region assaults must be expected. The baldy shall approach first. Deflect strike with weapon, attacking the elbow and dislocating it once from underneath, a second time from the right and a third from the left; arm rendered useless. Finish painful kneeling Brute with swift knee to the jaw. Next will come the Asian midget. Fast, steady – use the little mans advantages against him. Allow him to attempt attack; collect little mans head with downward kick. Concussion inevitable. Finally, Kung-Fu trained Asian gentleman. Highly different story. Block numerous strikes towards throat, attempt strike for mans chest and stomach region – attempting to wind him. Take away his legs thereafter rendering him useless with his fast attacks and continuous assaults with his legs. Finish with downward concussing punch to the face. Three down; daily exercise is tended to.'_

Without a moments delay, Holmes' eyes flashed open and the large bald man took it as his signal to attack. Quick movements made the series of attacks all seem like nothing more than milliseconds of hand-to-hand combat, and before anyone could believe, the bald man was downed with his arm dislocated in three places and his jaw feeling the painful sting of Holmes' knee. The Asian midget followed, a concussion offered his way. However, what Holmes hadn't expected was the Kung-Fu gentleman. The attack he started with – it was a feinted. Going to block the first attack, Sherlock found himself leaving his abdominal region open and taking the opportune moment, the trained fighter sent a firm kick into Holmes' stomach; winding him. Cascading backwards and falling backward onto the floor, Holmes recovered, rolling backwards and using the momentum he'd picked up from the kick to help him do so. This Asian gentleman wasn't a regular fighter. He was smart. He played at Sherlock Holmes' game. Watching on as the gentleman narrowed the distance between them, Holmes plotted his next move. Watching as a fist came his way, empowered by enormous speed – Holmes blocked the attack away with a struggle, faltering a little. Securing his footing, Holmes delivered a firm half a dozen pummelling blows to the Asian gentleman's ribs, watching him grimace in pain. With the pain he'd secured in the man, he used the moment of advantage he had, boosting himself into the air with his left foot and delivering and airborne kick directly to the Asian Gentleman's chest – casting him backwards, only to hit his head on the wall of the brilliant white building that Holmes had come to obtain entry to. He dropped downwards, his back supported by the wall and his head dipped down so that his chin was touching his chest. The final concussion required for all of this to be an easy search and collect.

Mustering himself, Holmes made his way towards the open homes door, passing into its innards and casting a quick glance around. Within that momentary glance, however, Holmes had secured more information than anyone ever could – even with several hours peering around the area. There was only one place that this personal account could be; the office of Lord Fry. It was clear by the indication of unused vicinities in the building. The Kitchen, bar simply scuff marks from a woman size shoe was never entered, however, masculine footsteps (larger than Asian size, but smaller than the large bald man) were constantly scuffing the floor from the entrance up stairs. Up stairs in which only had one room; the personal quarters of Lord Fry himself. Taking several well assessed steps towards the staircase; Holmes made his way up and stepped to the entrance of the closed office. Running his hand along the doorknob, Holmes felt around for any further signs. Other than the coloring having faded from extensive use, nothing seemed too obvious. Turning the knob, Sherlock stepped inside and shut the door behind him with an effortful quietness. Leaning his back against the door and allowing his eyes to dart around for any further hints of where the account would be located, Holmes smirked. A brief breeze could be felt in the room and it was coming from right ahead; behind the bookcase. Simple enough, and so, something hinted that this Lord Fry was a complete idiot. With one step, then a second, then a third, Holmes extended his arm and pulled at the bookcase, sliding it sideways and revealing a large room, absent of windows but fully cemented – almost like a bank vault. A document was encased in a glass display case directly ahead, attached to the far wall. Neatly around the borders were assortments of other important items. After a few seconds, Holmes waited to see if he could pick what exactly Moran had over this Lord Fry. What he had that, Lord Fry himself was unsure of, but knew would condemn him. Seconds passed and Holmes came to one conclusion; the document in the display case. Of course. An important document to Fry's establishment in parliament and obtaining of the fortune he had and Moran had imprinted some sort of hidden message within it. Something that could bring Fry to his knees. Holmes' thoughts were abruptly halted however and quickly, he made his way towards the document – hearing footsteps approaching from the rear. Opening the case and collecting the document, Sherlock pocketed it and raced back out, sliding the bookcase over the vault-like room. The door to the office was opened quickly and what emerged was hardly what Holmes had expected.

"Lestrade?" he spoke, out loud in a clear indication of his confusion.

"You've no idea how nice it is to hear some confusion in you, Holmes. Sadly though, you've gone and expressed it after breaking and entering into a Lord's home." Inspector Lestrade emerged from behind the officer that had opened the door.

"Ah. How did you find me?"

"Well, naturally, people don't take too nicely to seeing three men getting beaten out the front of a politician's home now, Holmes." Lestrade smirked tauntingly.

"Right." Holmes pouted a little. "Well then, let's get this done now shall we? Off to Scotland Yard with me!" Holmes pushed his hands out, offering them to be cuffed.

"Cuff him and let's get going." Lestrade instructed and watched on as his constable did just that.

* * *

><p>Six long hours. Six long hours Sherlock Holmes was forced to sit in the small cell that had been assigned to him. The bars dripped with icky moisture and the rust of the bars infused themselves with that moisture forming a horrible looking substance. As much as Holmes knew he would be relieved from the boundaries of his cell – he didn't quite know how long it would take the great Mycroft to get to business. The man was lazy, stout and a little too pudgy for his own good and his physical traits paid homage to his internal strives and interests.<p>

_Cha-Chink._

The sound of the gate echoed as it opened and Inspector Lestrade revealed himself, a finger playing at his somewhat thing moustache almost as if he was pondering whether or not to partake in the action he'd been expected to. With a slight pause and Sherlock's assessing guys glancing over the Inspectors body language and clear indications of reluctance – the young Holmes already knew what was to come; his imminent release. While Lestrade might have loved the way that Sherlock hindered and stopped crime, he hated the mans methods and his reluctance to simply advise authorities and allow them to handle things. No, Sherlock Holmes was far too self-obsessed and driven to do such a thing; hence, the reluctance he was expressing through his body language, and the pondering (hinted by the stroking of his moustache) as to whether to act on what was right, or what made his pleasant.

"Come Lestrade, are you going to peer at me as if I am the most bafflingly beautiful young woman you have ever come across or are you going to release me as request by the law in which paints framework on the term of 'bail'?" Holmes piped up, pursing his lips.

"Get up." Lestrade invited firmly. "Get on your way out of here, Holmes. Be quick. Honestly, bail shouldn't even be an alleyway to freedom for you. Not after what you pulled. Not after interjecting into politics."

Holmes stood from his seated position in the corner of his cell, the pride he usually had restoring itself as he paced forwards and nudged past Lestrade, stopping when he found himself inline with the man. Turning his head to the side, Holmes licked his lips, wetting them before speaking. "You mustn't take any of this to heart, Inspector. You may be the most inapt detective in Scotland Yard – but on this occasion – the fortunate seemingly win over the simply idiotic."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, quite simply, you're an idiot and I – with my relation to Mycroft – am one of the fortunate."

"- But Lord Fry is fortunate. His robber is walking free…. He hasn't won anything."

"Robber? Dear Lestrade, if I didn't know better, I'd presume you were accusing me of stealing. No item was found on my person and hence, no such crime can be set upon me."

"We didn't search you…. Actually… we-we should do that!" Lestrade blurted, his hands fumbling as if to try and grasp at Holmes' pockets. The P.I was too fast however, his hands dismissing the fumbling, clumsy detective.

"If I were still in custody perhaps that would be an option. I am however, a free man." Holmes grinned fondly, patting his inside breast pocket and winking almost suggesting the concealment of his evidence to bring Lord Fry to his knees.


End file.
